


Haiku for the Sum of the First Four Primes

by The_Circadian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Background Het, Big Brother Dean, Intoxication, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Sam Winchester, Porn Watching, Teen Sam Winchester, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unrequited Love, Young Sam Winchester, incestuous thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/The_Circadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam turns seventeen in Los Angeles and Dean brings home beer and an unrated movie to celebrate since Dad is away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haiku for the Sum of the First Four Primes

It’s Sam’s seventeenth birthday and the air has that tang of summer. Even though it’s barely May, it’s sweaty and smoggy and the evening is humid for Southern California. The Los Angeles sun shines strong even this late in the day. The asphalt stays warm long after it’s dark out. Birds stay up late and sing into the wee hours of the morning. Crickets are loud, but the constant hiss of freeway traffic makes it hard to tell.

Dean isn’t home yet. It’s still early though. The sky is a turning a dusty violet, chasing gold. Sam leans over the hotel’s railing. He’s a little buzzed off a few swigs of the half pint of vodka he keeps in the back of his tshirt drawer, but he figures he’ll take a shower and brush his teeth before Dean gets home. Dad probably won’t be home at all this weekend, which is its own sweet relief. He can’t remember exactly when space started being so desired but, Sam just wants to be away from Dad more and more these days.

But Dean’ll be home soon. Sam hopes so, hot heavy pulse low in his belly at the thought. Dean is different than Dad and really anybody. He’s is the only thing Sam doesn’t want to be away from anymore. He savors the time they have together when Dad is gone. When it’s just them and they can sit on the couch leaning on each other and watch movies and laugh. Sam can fill up the empty feeling for a while with Dean.

He fishes his pack out of his pocket. There’s a guy at school that sells cigarettes out of his locker. And though Sam had laughed when he had first been offered, there was enough of an itch of rebellion under his skin that one night after Dad had given him the third degree over chores, Sam called this classmate and asked how much for a pack and put the money in the kid’s hand the next day. He knows it doesn’t make him look older to smoke or anything like that. Only stupid people think that. But it feels good to flick the Bic and inhale the taste of it, feel the burn in his throat and the lightheaded rush that feels, he believes in his mostly inexperienced as of yet view of the subject, better than sex.

He thinks about Dean somewhere fucking some girl, because there is a great possibility this is an actuality. They’ve been here long enough for Dean to have lots of interest from the girls in town. Some guys too. Dean’s gotten in a few fights already predictably. Sam hates seeing him bloodied up, but damn if he looks alive after a fight. Sam’s never seen his eyes as bright as when there is a bruise next to one of them.

The cig is done and Sam puts it out in a planter next to the door, carefully buries it next to the dusty cactus half alive in it. Everything is dusty here.

He walks through the hotel suite and strips his shirt, kicks out of his jeans in the bathroom. He brushes his teeth in the shower while he’s in there, wet hair hanging into his eyes.

He hears the front door close and he hesitates, leans out of the spray slightly to listen for a second before Dean calls his name. “I’m in here.” Sam shouts back and busies himself rinsing his hair one more time.

Dean comes in without knocking, asks, “Dad called?”

Sam peeks out, slightly worried, because Dean seems out of breath. “No.”

“Good.” Dean flashes Sam a smile, mind numbingly bright and warm but edged with mischief, like he’s up to no good and Sam’s already an accomplice. “I rented a movie with boobs.”

Sam smiles back at Dean, because how can he not, and fumbles as he turns to shut off the water.

“Also,” Dean says, suddenly all serious, “there was something I wanted to tell you.” And Sam parts the curtain once more. “Something… uh, Happy… ? No, uh,” Dean scratches his head, shakes it, and then snaps his fingers turning to leave the room. “Merry Christmas! That’s it.”

Sam laughs at the empty doorway. “Jerk!”

“Bitch.” Dean’s voice echoes back through the hall in retreat, triumphant. “I got beer.”

 

Sam and Dean have been drinking together since last year. Dean passed him a can of Bud Light on his sixteenth birthday, another birthday Dad conveniently missed working a job, with a whispered “Happy Birthday” and a “Tell Dad and I’ll kill you.” Sam’s not a big fan of booze and isn’t good at drinking to get drunk, but he likes doing most anything alone with Dean and when it’s a secret like this it’s even better. That first time Sam had finished half of the can and then decided it tasted too bad to finish it. Dean had given him a book on Australian wildlife he’d picked up for his birthday and wrapped in multi colored funny papers pages for makeshift wrapping. Sam had pulled back the layers of Marmaduke and Family Circus and run his fingers over the used book’s cover. “It’s got a lot of pictures of animals and stuff,” Dean had kind of mumbled, leaning shoulder to shoulder with Sam on the couch of the place they were staying in a year back.

Sam couldn’t speak for a minute. Maybe it had been the beer. But it felt like his chest couldn’t hold how much he was feeling. It ached how _alive_ he felt suddenly with just how much he could _feel_ for somebody. Dean managed to always resurrect the things that Sam wrote off as lost causes in his life all the time: this birthday, his chance at normal, at being happy.

Sam had turned and swung his arm around Dean, wedged his other arm to hold Dean under his arm and buried his face in Dean’s shoulder, breathing the smell of him in, hugging him. “Thank you,” he whispered into worn flannel, could feel his own spit soaking into it and felt good about it somehow. Some part of him got to stay on Dean beyond the appropriate amount of time for a hug.

Dean wrapped an arm around him, hesitantly, rubbed his hand over his back and chuckled. “Wow, if I’d known a book was all it took to make your sulky ass this happy, I’d have gotten you one ages ago,” Dean said it joking but his breath was uneven and Sam could feel the tension in his body, of not really knowing what to do.

“Shut up,” Sam murmured into his shirt, eyes still shut tight, finally breathed out a “Thank you” against him.

Dean relaxed slightly, hand warm on his back. “No problem, Sammy.”

 

Sam’s completely buzzed by the end of the first beer. Dean got something stronger than the piss beer he normally gets. Tastes better too. The selection is better here in the city. Sam’s tempted to get another out of the fridge to see if he can get drunker since the taste doesn’t bother him too much, but doesn’t want to fall asleep either. He’s never had more than one whenever they drink and usually it makes Sam sleepy. And he wants to spend time with Dean but he also wants to keep feeling this hum under his skin.

Dean’s got Sam’s legs in his lap and is holding Sam’s ankle with one hand and resting his bottle of beer on Sam’s knee with the other. Sam’s not really watching the movie much at this point. It’s a very stupid movie; in Sam’s experience anything with the word “unrated” on the cover normally is. But they have seen a fair amount of tits already and Dean thinks the gross humor is funny and Sam can watch Dean instead when it gets dull. He can watch Dean from the side when he laughs and when he rates girls’ bodies, which Sam would think was kind of mean if Dean didn’t consistently rate them all very highly.

“34D, right there. Homegrown. Damn,” he mutters and Sam laughs.

“You’re gross.”

Dean looks over, incredulous. “I’m appreciative.”

Sam smiles and shakes his head sitting up. “Can I have another one?”

Dean eyes him. “I don’t know, Sammy. You handle your alcohol about as well as a ten year old girl.”

“’Fucks sake, I’m fine,” Sam huffs out, smirking. Hell, now he’s determined.

Sam makes his way to the fridge, feels the lack of control in his movements which is a little unnerving because Dad has taught them to always be ready to fight. Sam would be no good to even arm wrestle with probably at this point. He pulls the bottle from the six pack - cold, wet neck between his fingers – and  opens it by wedging it on the counter and hitting it the way Dean does. He spills a little. And chips the counter. “Shit.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Sam runs his finger over the chip, stress spiking, but the indentation is small and overlookable. Dad won't know. He breathes deep, lets the feeling of guilt and fear fade as he quickly cleans up. He wipes up the spilled beer with a paper towel, throws it away with the bottle cap discreetly under the sink, and takes a long drink from the bottle on the walk back to the couch.

By the end of the second beer he’s pretty much forgotten the movie entirely.

Dean has Sam’s legs in his lap again and his fingers on the skin of Sam’s ankle. It’s all Sam can think about. That and the fact that Dean is really so fucking pretty he can’t think of why Dean has sex with anyone, because he doesn’t think anyone could be as pretty as Dean is right now and how unfair is that? No one as pretty as Dean in the whole wide world. He’s glowing golden in the lamp’s light. He’s perfect when he doesn’t know anyone is watching, and Sam can see him now, all soft edges, guard down.

Dean is on his third beer, is nursing it slowly and then downs the last half. Sam watches the line of his throat and can’t help but swallow too.

Sam’s buzzing pretty hard. It’s kind of nice though. He usually doesn’t let himself indulge in this kind of behavior around Dean, he doesn’t let himself look this long, or want this hard. He’s hard. Fuck, he’s so hard just looking at Dean’s mouth right now. Dean bites his upper lip and Sam bites his own to try and subdue this feeling with a sharp burst of pain.

Dean looks over at Sam and Sam inhales like he’s been caught.

“You doin’ okay?”

Sam nods, very aware of the hard-on he’s hiding behind his bent leg, knows he probably looks completely drunk too. “Two beers,” Dean laughs unbelieving. “Oh my god.”

“I’m smaller than you,” Sam protests, slurring.

“Dude, don’t even.” Dean scoffs quietly. “It’s not easy for me to admit you’re half a head taller than me now.” There’s something maybe sad in the way Dean says it as he looks back at the TV, rubs his thumb over Sam’s ankle again and Sam is really glad Dean is looking elsewhere because he can’t help but close his eyes as they roll back. Dean’s touch hits bone deep, instantly shifts to a pang in his groin that makes him bite back a moan he feels right there in his throat, ready to spill and expose.

“Look at _her_ though,” Dean says and Sam manages to open his eyes and look at the TV screen, blond girl he’s seen in one of these movies before unbuttoning her shirt and looking hungry. Her tits aren’t big, but truthfully Sam isn’t really into tits. At least not much more than the thrill of seeing something he knows he ought not to be seeing. When he touches himself tits are not on his mind.

Sam focus is pulled back to Dean. He feels all of himself watching him, all of him heavy and humming with drunken arousal, and he distantly marvels at how he feels on such dangerous ground suddenly with the only one he’s ever felt safe with.

All he can think about is whether Dean has gotten off today and whether it was with someone else. Did he appreciate them with the kind filthy talk that’s falling from his lips now? Sam swallows.

“Bet she’s great in the sack.” Dean breathes. “Damn… Bet she knows just what she wants.”

Sam shifts his hips back slightly. The want that pulls through him even with the small friction is painful. Sam is keenly aware of how he looks right now – he feels his face is flushed, sweat trickling down his neck and sticky under his shirt. He knows if he gets up to go to the bathroom to beat off or even just separate himself from this situation, Dean will notice and make his own humiliating conclusions.

And more than that, Sam doesn’t want to leave. He wants. He wants so much more than he can ask for.

Dean tilts his head back, heavy lidded, rubs his thumb over the inside of Sam’s foot like it’s just the easiest thing and if Sam could purr like a cat he would. But he watches Dean instead, imagines that same tilt of head, that same heavy lidded gaze while a girl rode him and Sam’s finds his own hand resting over his erection, pressing it down like a steady authoritative command that only turns into a trembling plea of a soft clutch because it was really a bad idea; it feels too good. He squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth won’t stay closed and he’s breathing like he’s been walking fast and his heart is pounding and there is no way he can get away with this now.

And when Sam looks up Dean’s looking at him with concern for sure, but it’s hard for Sam to really read the rest of that expression. Dean must know. He’s got to see how bad Sam is being. He’s got to be shocked, but Sam really can’t tell. Dean looks like he’s trying to figure out how to ask him something, like he’s not sure if he can.

There is stillness, a wavering of questioning that never forms words, and the pounding insistent growing roar of need inside him and Sam gives up. He gives in. He rubs himself through his jeans twice and drops his head to the side to lean on the back of the couch, still staring at Dean, mouth open and panting.

Dean looks back at the TV for a second and swallows. And Sam is terrified he’s mad, but then Dean smiles and says with a jerk of his head towards the screen, “Got you all riled up, huh?” Dean is blushing and it’s something Sam doesn’t see very much. Dean’s whole face is pink even in the dim light. He’s still got his hand on Sam’s foot, heat and moisture from his palm burning Sam’s skin.

Sam nods and rubs again, feels fireworks in response, feels the aching need for more friction like an itch he can’t scratch. “Want it,” Sam grits out finally, and he’s staring at Dean but Dean doesn’t understand, he wouldn’t ever understand.

“You’ll get it someday, buddy, I promise.” Dean says quietly. Sam groans softly and closes his eyes. Tries to let that mean something it doesn’t for a moment, can’t believe he lets himself.

He doesn’t know when he got his fly open or his hand in, but suddenly he’s thrusting up and biting his lip as he reaches the edge, shooting all over his fingers, leg still lifted like somehow he can still hide this. He shudders out the last wave of it and whimpers in a whisper with relief as he sinks down and down. It’s world-altering, like he’d never been spent until now, like arousal was all he knew until this moment and now all he can feel is this new uncomfortable space of his body, prickling and wet.  And he did it, oh god—

He opens his eyes to see Dean carefully watching him without meeting his gaze, looking over his legs and his face, taking all of him in with an unexpectedly soft expression, mouth slightly open in a way that makes Sam wish he could read Dean’s mind so badly. All the same, Dean’s hand on his foot is tellingly still. Sam is caught and on exhibit under that look. The world is spinning and Sam feels sick and he must look panicked because Dean rubs his ankle again and says, “Shh, no, you’re okay.” And just like that he’s warm, a wave of calm washing over him and leveling him in unquestioning trust. He’s not in trouble. He’s not in trouble with Dean and that is more relief than the evidence all over his fist.

Sam’s still supremely drunk which is probably why he says, “I love you” to his brother, the come on his fingers as incriminating as blood.

Dean watches him for a long moment, and for a flash Sam thinks he sees something cross Dean’s face – like he’s sad or angry or both – but it’s gone so fast maybe Sam imagined it. Dean looks down and finally sighs, chuckles, “You are going to owe me in ways you don’t even know yet if I never bring this up again.”

Sam is drifting off as Dean says it. It could be a threat, Sam knows, but even through the haze Sam hears in the gentleness of Dean’s tone it’s a secret and a favor, and that’s enough like an _I love you too_ to make it alright.

 


End file.
